Christmas Party
by Moony3003
Summary: Sherlock and John have a fight just before Christmas and feeling guilty, Sherlock decides to make it up to John. Rated T.


**Disclaimer: **Sherlock doesn't belong to me.

* * *

Story contains male/male love. Nothing explicit. But if you don't like, please don't read.

Loola-bye - I meant to post it in the tv section but forget and didn't read it properly. Thanks!

* * *

Christmas Party

The black door leading into 221B Baker Street opened and soon closed with a heavy thud. Footsteps sounded in the short front hall but paused at the end of the stairs. It was odd. Pulling out the expensive iphone from his jacket pocket he checked his messages. There was nothing. Usually throughout the day he received numerous texts from his roommate but today there was nothing at all.

Shaking his head he walked up the seventeen steps until he reached his apartment. After opening the green door and stepping inside, he instantly knew something was wrong. Newspapers littered the floor, the skull lay on its side under the window and books lay strewn across the floor, some open and some with ripped or missing pages. But nothing had been taken.

John frowned heavily and moved quickly, wrenching the kitchen doors open. It was in similar disorder. Cutlery lined the linoleum floor; the cupboard doors were open along with the fridge which was empty, the packages and cans lining the bench and table as well as the floor.

A small cough from behind made him turn and he saw his landlady standing in the doorway, one hand across her stomach while the other hand cupped her mouth. She appeared distressed.

"Oh, I am sorry, Dr. Watson," she mumbled fearfully, her eyes glazing over with tears.

"What happened?" he asked, voice full of concern.

"He was so angry," she whispered, lowering her hand, clasping them together.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Sherlock," she clarified. "I've seen him angry before but nothing like this."

John approached her and gently took hold of her arms, getting her to meet his eye. "Tell me what happened."

Mrs. Hudson inhaled shakily before answering the doctor's question. "At lunch time he returned from St. Bartholomew's. He said nothing and came straight upstairs. It wasn't long after the door closed that I heard thumping so I came up to have a look. Some of the furniture had been over turned and the mail had been thrown out the window. I asked him what was wrong and he yelled at me, so I left. It lasted for a least half an hour before he stormed out. I went outside, picked up the mail and returned up here to pick up the furniture that I could lift.

John nodded as Mrs. Hudson finished talking. As soon as she mentioned the mail, John realised what must have caused Sherlock's reaction. He had meant to tell him about the Christmas party but hadn't quite gotten around to it. Some of the responses to the invitations must have been sent by mail and Sherlock, never the one to keep out of other people's business, would go through his mail as well as his own.

"Do you know where he went?" he asked, realising hold of his landlady.

Slowly, she shook her head. "I have no idea," she said looking around the destroyed kitchen. "Oh, dear, perhaps I should clear up, make things presentable again."

She went to move in and begin cleaning up but John instantly stopped her, put his arm around her shoulder and led her towards the door.

"Don't worry about any of this, Mrs. Hudson," he said. "I'll clean up and have a chat with Sherlock when he comes home, alright?"

When Mrs. Hudson disappeared from sight, John placed both hands on hips and looked around the room. A heavy sigh escaped him. This was going to be very annoying.

* * *

Hours later, the apartment was clean. John sat in the living room in his favourite armchair and waited in the dark. His eyes adjusted ages ago and they wandered over the numerous things sitting on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. Many times his eyes stopped and rested on the skull and it instantly made him think of Sherlock, making his feelings of annoyance and anger return.

As the clock ticked one minute past midnight, John's head turned slightly as the front door clicked open, followed by soft thuds up the stairs. The door to the apartment creaked open and without looking into the room, the light was switched on.

"Oh," said Sherlock in a tone of surprise. "Hello."

"Hello?" scoffed John. "Hello? That's all you've got to say?"

The consulting detective's eyes narrowed slightly but without saying a word, he walked around to see his roommate properly. John sat rigid in his armchair, his legs straight and crossed over, one arm resting across the side while the other was stiffly pointed up, his hand covering part of his mouth. Sherlock made a quick and very simply deduction; he was pissed.

Sherlock sighed as he took a seat opposite the doctor. "So, what have I done this time?" he asked, rolling his eyes.

John closed his eyes, the annoyance from before growing even more. He clicked his tongue, trying to stop himself. But he couldn't. He got to his feet and rounded on Sherlock, his anger still building.

"Are you kidding me?" he asked rhetorically. "You destroyed the apartment with your little tantrum!"

Sherlock looked slightly taken aback but he shrugged faintly and got to his feet, stepping past John to enter the kitchen. "Well," he said, pushing his shoulder's back. "The place looks great."

"That's because I spent the whole night cleaning it up," said John loudly, but it didn't give him the reaction he wanted. "I want an explanation, Sherlock."

The consulting detective turned briefly, meeting his eye before looking away, turning his attention to the fridge. He opened it and looked inside. There was a lot more in there then when he'd raided the room earlier. Leaving the room, he passed John again but this time, John grabbed his sleeve, preventing him from leaving.

"John-"

"No, Sherlock," interrupted John, his tone hard. "I want an explanation."

"You already know," said Sherlock calmly.

He tugged his arm free and walked to where the mail sat collected and messy. His long fingers search through them and quickly found an example to use. Sherlock took a step closer to him and shook the white paper in his face. The festive decorations that adorned each side flashed quickly before his eyes.

"This," said Sherlock, shoving it in his face further. "This is why I'm angry."

"It's just a party..."

"A Christmas party," corrected Sherlock. "A Christmas party that you just happen to forgot to tell me about. What else do you have planned up your sleeve? A new year's celebration?"

"Sherlock..."

"This is my apartment too, John," interrupted Sherlock again. "Don't forget that I invited you to live here with me and I can always ask you to leave."

This time it was John's turn to be taken aback. But in seconds, his features relaxed as he scoffed. "You can't afford this place alone and you were lucky to even find me to live with. No one else will put up with you."

"I'm a joy to be around," said Sherlock quietly in an undecipherable tone.

"Oh yeah, an absolute joy," said John in mock agreement. "You leave body parts around the apartment, you take my clothes without asking despite the fact that we're clearly different sizes, you leave at all hours of the night to do whatever you're doing, you play that bloody violin whenever you darn well please and you unnecessarily message me all day every day!"

"John, I-"

"I'm not finished," snapped John furiously. "I cannot indulge every single whim you have, Sherlock. You're not a child and I'm done treating you like one. You're an adult. You should count yourself lucky I'm even still living here. You're difficult, annoying and tiresome."

The last word came out as a heavy sigh and it was obvious he had given up. Before the consulting detective could get out a single word, the apartment door slammed shut soon followed by the main door downstairs. Feeling a mixture of things, Sherlock stood there for an unknown amount of time before he moved, sitting down in his armchair.

* * *

The room was as silent as could be, not even the breathing of its only occupant made a sound. From downstairs, a ticking clock could be heard and once it hit midday, it chimed, telling him the time. The time was passing slowly but he still hadn't returned. If he could be openly honest, he'd admit that he was a little concerned, but it always dimmed when he reminded himself of where he had actually gone. It almost made his blood boil.

With the knowledge that there was only one way he could make this better, Sherlock got to his feet, pocketed his phone and left the apartment. On his return, he placed the bags on the desk and got to work. When it was finished, he took several steps back, almost hitting the kitchen door, and smiled broadly. John would like this.

* * *

As he reached the door, it opened from the inside and John found himself face to face with his landlady. A knowing smile was painted on her face. It gave him a funny feeling and one that he wasn't sure if he wanted to know what it was about. With gentle assurance and tugging at his arm, she led him inside and hesitantly, he followed her upstairs.

The green door creaked open slowly and revealed a room full of people, chattering and laughing. Shock registered on his face, making Mrs. Hudson chuckle quietly. With another small tug, he stepped into the room. Instantly, he glanced around. It looked unlike the place he had left last night. The apartment looked tidy. The books were lined on the shelf, the skull was missing from its usual place and the desk was empty save for a small, green Christmas tree that was lit up brightly with at least a hundred little lights.

Tinsel lined the ceiling along each wall, sparkling in shades of green, red, silver and gold, each of the windows were lined with fake snow around the outside while each panel had something Christmassy stuck to it and both armchairs were gone, replaced with a small coffee table filled with food and bottles of wine.

Across the room, John saw Sarah who was talking to an animate Molly. Both had drinks of red wine in hand and both seemed happy. John glanced at the other people. Near the fireplace he could see Sherlock's brother, Mycroft speaking with detective inspector Lestrade. The first smile of the day appeared on John's face. He could only imagine what those too were talking about.

On the far side of the room, near the windows, Sherlock stood, staring outside, only half listening to Anthea, whose phone wasn't in sight. John chuckled slightly at the picture. From here he already knew what Sherlock wanted to say to her. He wondered how long he could hold out.

Deciding what had to be done first, John stepped towards Sarah and Molly who both ceased in their conversation and turned to look at him. At the wry smile from Sarah, John chuckled.

"You knew about this?"

"Of course I did," she said happily. "Sherlock called early this morning. You were still asleep on the sofa. He said he wanted to move the Christmas party a couple days earlier and I helped him call some of the others."

"And the apartment?"

"Mr. Holmes did that all himself," said Sarah. "I think he's rather proud of it."

"And so he should be," piped up Molly. "I mean, it looks g-good."

Both doctors looked at her but she didn't meet their eyes, preferring to stare at the floor and take a sip of her wine. John could see the blush that rose up on her cheeks but he didn't comment. The attraction to Sherlock could be seen from here. Even he didn't have to be a consulting detective to work that out.

Excusing himself politely, John approached the coffee table and poured himself a large glass of red wine. A tall figure appeared beside him and a glass was held out.

"Fill her up, Dr. Watson."

His head turned at the unmistakable voice of Mycroft Holmes and without hesitation, John tipped the bottle and filled three quarters of the glass. There was a shift and with a clap on the back John found himself led towards the fireplace and greeted by Lestrade.

"I was starting to think you weren't going to show up," said Mycroft with a wide grin.

"Well, the late change in time of the party was sort of sprung on me too," said John, rubbing the back of his neck. "I am glad all of you were able to make it on such short notice."

"Well, I certainly wouldn't miss my brother's party, especially if I was invited," declared Mycroft happily, his smile widening.

"It's better than I pictured in my head," commented John distantly.

"I can honestly say it's a great party," added Mycroft.

"And I'm not drunk enough," said Lestrade, finally saying something and watching the exchange between the two men. He leaned forward and grabbed another bottle off the table. John chuckled and silently, he was in agreement with him.

* * *

The party lasted until long after midnight and soon it was down to only two people; Sherlock and John. Silence remained between them as they cleaned up, putting glasses in the sink, plates in the kitchen and the bottles of wine back into the fridge. They brushed past each other without words and both could feel the tension rising between them. They both knew something had to be said.

With half the living room clean, John suddenly stopped. A sigh escaped him. He watched as Sherlock continued moving gracefully around the room, his long lean body able to slide, turn and scoop when needed without pausing. It brought a smile to John's face. He was right. This couldn't wait any longer.

"I'm sorry."

Abruptly, Sherlock stopped, the glass in his hands falling to the carpeted floor and bouncing once but it didn't break. His back remained to him but John saw him take a deep breath and hold it. He always knew he was going to speak first but he didn't quite have the words. He still didn't but something needed to be said.

"Sherlock... I didn't mean a lot of what I said. I-"

In a flash, Sherlock turned and pinned John against the piece of wall between the windows, winding him. John breathed heavily as he looked up at Sherlock in surprise and he waited, knowing that his last words had touched a nerve of some sort. Sherlock's lean body loomed over him as he bent closer, their faces inches apart.

"You're lying," breathed Sherlock. "You meant every single word you said."

"Sher-"

"Oh, you misunderstand me," interrupted Sherlock. "I'm not angry. I was, maybe, a little surprised that it took this long for you to break although it wasn't my intention. And perhaps I can be a little... difficult but you've known this since the moment we first met. Now, I'm not going to apologise for the way I am as it's no secret but I will try and take your feelings into consideration... when I think of it."

John couldn't help but laugh. It was a good attempt. "You know, that almost sounded like-"

A pale finger against his lips halted his words and Sherlock gently shushed him. "I'm not finished," he said, repeating the words John had used earlier but in a much gentler tone. "You need to learn how to talk to me without shouting and throwing a tantrum of your own. And just for it I have a riding crop and don't worry, it's been properly and thoroughly cleaned from its last use."

After Sherlock finished talking John attempted to speak but it came out a little muffled. Moving his finger, Sherlock silenced him completely by crushing their lips together. John instantly moaned at the contact but didn't move. He felt stunned at Sherlock's actions. When Sherlock pulled back, they stared at each other. Blue eyes met grey and for a long while nothing happened. Their breaths increased, echoing through each other's ears.

John grabbed the inside of Sherlock's black suit jacket, wanting to bring him closer but Sherlock kept himself at bay, shaking his head lightly. "You stayed the night at Sarah's."

Still keeping his hold of Sherlock's clothing, John exhaled heavily in slight disbelief. Just like last time he didn't question on how Sherlock knew what he knew but the statement was true. Surely, Sherlock knew that nothing happened, just like how he knew where he was. He thought explaining himself was something that Sherlock wouldn't require.

"I know I did," said John in response to Sherlock's statement. "And you already know nothing happened. So, what-" John caught himself. "You were jealous."

A faint shade of pink crept up Sherlock's neck and reached his cheeks but it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared and he cleared his throat. "Was not," he said almost inaudibly.

John chuckled, knowing that Sherlock would never admit to feeling anything as trivial as jealously. With an amused click of his tongue, John pulled Sherlock down and against his body, pressing their lips together again. Sherlock smiled against his lips and returned the kiss with a passion that had so far been hidden. Without warning, Sherlock's hand snaked down his body and in seconds, he gasped.

"You're all soft," said Sherlock pulling away, his lips going for John's neck, his hand continuing in its groping mission.

John got in on the action and pulled Sherlock's shirt from the tight confines of his pants and shoved his hands up and against the man's pale, lean chest. The skin felt soft and cool. This time it was John who broke the kiss as the pressure started to become too much and his eyes darted around Sherlock's slim frame to the open apartment door.

"Perhaps we should move this to your bedroom?"

Sherlock smirked and took John's hand in his own and led him towards his bedroom. "Good idea. I have a gift for you..."


End file.
